by Linda Style
A thin tight smile flitted across Gretta’s face, as if she’d said too much, especially to someone she barely knew.
“Your granddaughter is beautiful,” Whitney said, desperate for more information.
Gretta rose from her chair. “SaraJane is the light of our lives. And Rhys adores her.”
“That’s easy to see. She’s a lucky little girl to have grandparents like you and Johnny to take care of her. It’s hard when parents work.” Whitney hoped she’d stay and talk about SaraJane or Rhys, or both.
But the older woman started for the door. “Unfortunately Rhys doesn’t have any other option. SaraJane’s mother abandoned her when she was an infant.” She raised her chin. “But we all try very hard to make up for it. We give her all the love we can.”
A hard knot formed in Whitney’s stomach. Gretta believed SaraJane was abandoned by her mother? How absurd. Morgan’s very last thoughts, her last words, concerned her daughter.
“Abandoned? Are you sure?” Whitney blurted.
The woman’s expression questioned Whitney’s meaning.
“I mean, it’s hard to believe anyone could abandon a helpless child.”
Gretta reached for the doorknob. Thoughtful, she rubbed the brass with her thumb, then eased open the door. “It is, isn’t it?” She sighed deeply and brought her gaze to Whitney’s. “That’s something I’ll never understand.”
“Oh, don’t go.” Whitney stood. “Have some tea?”
Gretta’s expression warmed at the suggestion. “Thank you, dear. I’d love to, but I have to finish preparations for morning.” She indicated that Whitney should sit. “You just enjoy your meal—then try to get some more rest. You really don’t look well.”
Damn tough to do, Whitney thought dejectedly after Gretta left. Leaning forward, elbows on the table, she stabbed a spinach leaf in the center of the stoneware salad bowl with her fork. Rhys had lied to them about SaraJane’s mother abandoning her.
But then, what else could he say without incriminating himself? He’d deceived his own parents to get them to do what he wanted. It was despicable. And he was setting them up for a world of hurt. How could he do that to them?
But wasn’t she about to do the same? She couldn’t take custody of SaraJane and not hurt them in the process. It was obvious, even if she told them about Rhys, that they wouldn’t believe it. What parent would?
Gretta had alluded to changes in Rhys’s life in the past year. She’d said he was trying to hold things together. But why? What did it all mean?
Was it possible that Rhys had undergone some life-changing metamorphosis, and that he’d actually come here with SaraJane to start a new life? Could the man Morgan had described truly change? If so, how would it affect her own bid to gain custody?
The image of Rhys with SaraJane in his arms flashed in Whitney’s head. A loving father who, as Gretta said, considered his daughter the light of his life.
Even as Whitney undressed and went to bed, she couldn’t stop thinking of Rhys as he’d looked holding SaraJane. She snuggled under the puffy down-filled comforter, more confused than she’d been in a long time, again welcoming the respite of sleep.
Throughout the night, the dream came in fits and starts, like a photographic collage. Rhys was there, and then Whitney was there and in his arms, and they whirled in slow motion, body to body, gaze to gaze, his face so close, his breath so hot. Teasing, tantalizing, lips closer and closer until his full sensuous mouth connected with hers, and she could feel his hands as they caressed, explored, touching her everywhere. A deep ache of desire throbbed inside, and she begged him to make love to her.
Whitney bolted upright, her heart pounding, her skin feverish and damp with sweat. Dazed, she fought to clear her head.
Rhys Gannon was the man who’d fathered her sister’s child, then kidnapped her baby, leaving Morgan sick and alone. Ultimately, that was how Morgan had died. Alone. Without the man she’d once loved. Without her family. Without her child.
A murderer. A kidnapper. How could she think of Rhys in any other way? Even in her dreams.
A thud, like the sound of a car door, brought her fully awake. Oh, jeez. Was it morning already?
She darted from the bed to the window, hoping it was Rhys and SaraJane. She couldn’t wait to talk to her niece and had already decided not to go to the shop until later, but she needed to do it without arousing suspicion.
She peered outside. Her stomach dropped to her toes. Rhys.
She wouldn’t approach him now. Instead, she’d wait till he left, then call the shop to let him know she had a few things to do and that she’d be there in an hour or so.
The landline phone rang, jarring her. Who’d call her so early? Who even knew she was here? Finally, reluctantly, she plucked the receiver from the cradle.
“Still asleep?” Rhys’s husky voice was unmistakable.
“No.” And why was he calling? Had Gretta told him about their conversation last night? “Is something wrong?”
“Nope,” he answered cheerfully. “I’m at the inn, so I was just checking to see if you wanted to hitch a ride with me—since we’re going to the same place and all.” A moment of silence fell before he added, “And we’re both coming back to the same place.”
Her heart tripped involuntarily at his thoughtfulness. “Thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I have a couple of things to do before I can get there this morning.” It wasn’t a total lie. She did have things to do. “I’ll be there in an hour, how’s that?”
“Works for me.” Whitney heard a child’s giggle in the background. “Wait just a second, angel,” she heard Rhys say softly away from the receiver. She clutched the phone, listening.
“Here, punkin face, let me help you get that off.” Another pause. “Sorry, Whitney. Yeah, whenever is fine. Just thought I’d check.”
She thanked him again for offering and said she’d see him later. When she heard the car pull away, she quickly showered, threw on a pair of jeans and a white cotton T-shirt with a denim shirt over it and dashed downstairs.
Gretta was in the kitchen by the butcher-block island, intent on arranging hot scones in baskets lined with floral-printed linen napkins. Whitney glanced around, searching for SaraJane. Where was she?
Her stomach cramped, her anxiety building. She couldn’t simply start asking questions about the child. Gretta was too smart not to suspect something.
She sauntered toward Gretta. This was a working kitchen, but cozy, the kind photographed for country-home-decorating magazines. Copper pots and pans dangled from hooks overhead, cookbooks lined the shelves next to the refrigerator, and several crockery pitchers with an assortment of wooden spoons and wire whips were strategically placed near the white enameled stove.
The scents of homemade bread and fresh-brewed coffee completed the scene. “Good morning,” Gretta said, handing Whitney two brimming baskets.
Whitney automatically took them and started toward the dining room, wondering briefly why Gretta allowed her to help today when she hadn’t let her last night. She didn’t mind, though; in fact, it felt good to do something.
“I’m glad you’re joining us for breakfast,” Gretta said as Whitney nudged the swinging door with her hip.
“It smells wonderful,” Whitney said. “And you’re right—it is a good morning.”
Entering the dining room with the scones, Whitney again looked for her niece, her gaze falling on the Blaelows who sat at the table like a pair of matching Buddhas. Damn. She’d forgotten about the Blaelows.
Whitney managed a polite greeting, placed the baskets on the oak table and flew back into the kitchen.
“I’m not so sure about the good-morning part anymore.” She cocked her head toward the dining room.
Gretta laughed, eyes sparkling. “Change your mind about breakfast?”
“Nope, not a chance after sampling your cooking last night. I’ll be a regular from now on.” Whitney leaned over the countertop and whispered, “Not even the Blaelows will ke
ep me away.”
Just then the back door banged open and the little girl bounded in, Johnny right on her heels. “Here, Grammy. We gots flowers.” Her small arms were filled with a combination of fall flowers, reeds and weeds, which she promptly dropped on a side table. She started pushing a chair toward the cupboard, completely oblivious to Whitney’s presence.
“Wait a minute, young lady.” Johnny held her back.
“Where d’you think you’re going with that?”
The child’s eyes widened as she pointed a chubby finger to an open shelf above the cookbooks. “Grammy’s vases are up there now.”
“Ah, right you are. Well, you just relax for a minute, young lady, and I’ll hand you one. Then we’ll put some water in the vase and you can arrange your flowers.” He grinned affectionately at his granddaughter.
The child responded with a nod, blond curls bouncing. Her bluer than blue eyes widened when she noticed Whitney standing next to Gretta.
“SaraJane, honey, this is Miss Sheffield.” Gretta crouched to the child’s level and gently brushed dried leaves and dirt from the knees of her denim coveralls.
Oh, Lord, the little girl looked so much like Morgan, Whitney’s breath caught. Her pain got all mixed up with an indescribable elation, and her heart literally seemed to swell in her chest. She blinked back the tears that came to her eyes.
“I’d like you to call me Whitney, SaraJane.” Her voice was a mere whisper.
The child stared up at Whitney curiously, her cheeks rosy from the brisk morning air.
“I got some flowers.” She pointed toward the table where she’d dumped the bouquet, but kept her gaze on Whitney.
“And they’re very beautiful.” Whitney bent low to talk to her. She was so tiny, or maybe she just seemed that way to Whitney. She’d never been around children much, except when Morgan was a baby, and a slight panic took hold of her.
Whitney had been ten when Morgan was born, and for the next seven years, she’d protected Morgan from her mother’s alcoholic tirades and abusive behavior—being more of a mother to Morgan than Kathryn Sheffield ever was. But that was thirteen years ago, and she hadn’t a clue what to do now.
“I’m sure your grandmother appreciates your help, too,” Whitney finally said.
SaraJane frowned thoughtfully and pressed her Kewpie-doll lips together. “What’s pre-she-ates?”
Oh, God, she was precious. So very precious. Whitney looked to Gretta.
“It means Grammy’s happy you helped,” Gretta said, coming to Whitney’s rescue.
Johnny reached for a vase, and after checking its size against the bouquet SaraJane had picked, he set it on the small table next to the flowers. “There you go, angel. You arrange them and I’ll fill it with water when you’re done.”
SaraJane quickly unzipped her pink corduroy jacket, shrugged it off and dashed to the alcove, where she hung the coat on a low hook. “Wanna help?” She looked up at Whitney before latching onto Whitney’s fingers with her tiny hand, urging her forward.
“You can do the big ones ’cause you’re big, and I’ll do the little ones, ’cause I’m little,” SaraJane said, her cheeks dimpling as she directed Whitney to the table.
SaraJane was an angel. An absolute angel.
Breakfast with the Blaelows was bearable because SaraJane sat on a booster seat beside Whitney and chattered through the whole meal. When everyone was finished, Whitney gave the departing couple her perfunctory regrets.
The Blaelows related their travel plans, saying after breakfast they were off to Disneyland, at which point SaraJane piped up with, “Poppy’s taking me there, too.” She poked a finger into her mouth and giggled.
For a child who’d been through a couple of years of uncertainty, she seemed completely unscathed, Whitney observed, watching SaraJane’s eyes round with excitement. No doubt it was Gretta and Johnny’s love and stability that had helped her through it.
“After Christmas,” SaraJane finished as she wriggled down from her chair. She skipped into the sitting room and picked up a stuffed bear from the floor. Clutching it to her chest, she plopped into a child-size rocking chair. Then she held the bear at arm’s length. “Pooh is going too,” she said matter-of-factly, before she brought it to her chest again and squeezed hard. “Aren’t you, Pooh Bear?”
In the next instant SaraJane was dragging out toys from a large wicker basket, completely absorbed in her task.
Fascinated, Whitney felt catapulted back in time, as if she were watching her little sister. Her heart ached with the terrible knowledge that Morgan would never see her daughter again.
And SaraJane would never know her mommy.
“Well, it’s been nice meeting you, Whitney,” Carl Blaelow stuck out his hand. “Good luck on your book. We’ll look forward to seeing it and we’ll be sure to tell all our friends about it.” Helen giggled.
Whitney knew she should leave for the shop, as well. Though it was the last thing she felt like doing, she couldn’t stay with SaraJane the whole day, or she’d have everyone wondering.
What she wanted was to pluck the child up and whisk her away. But she’d only just met SaraJane. She had no bond with her as Rhys and the grandparents did. And most importantly, she couldn’t even prove a kinship with her niece.
Not yet.
She had to bide her time.
She bade the Blaelows goodbye, went to her room for her cameras and came back down. Just as her foot hit the bottom step, SaraJane appeared. She latched onto Whitney’s fingers and pulled her into the sunroom, where she had an assortment of dolls precariously perched on tiny chairs around a play table set with miniature cups and saucers.
“Would you like some tea?” SaraJane asked, enunciating each word as clearly as a three-year-old could. She proceeded to hoist herself onto one of the chairs, her feet barely touching the floor.
Watching the morning sun glint off her niece’s golden hair, Whitney took out her smaller camera and clicked off a couple of frames. “Can’t right now, sweetheart.”
SaraJane seemed oblivious to the camera, going about the business of offering tea to the Raggedy Ann doll sitting across from her.
“Maybe later, when I come back after work.” Kneeling beside her niece, Whitney fought a desperate urge to pull her close and hug her hard. Instead, she reached out to smooth a springy blond curl from the child’s face and squeeze her small hand.
Swallowing painfully, Whitney stood. On the way out she turned and blew SaraJane a kiss. When SaraJane blew a kiss back, as naturally as if they’d been doing it forever, Whitney was sure her heart had burst.
CHAPTER NINE
WHITNEY ENTERED THE SHOP and as she turned to close the door, a draft of wind pulled it shut with a bang. At the sound, Rhys’s voice boomed from the back office.
“Be with you in a minute.”
She picked her way through the aisles, glancing at the unopened boxes on the floor against the wall. A razor knife and price labeler lay on top. Yesterday Rhys had explained some of the jobs she could easily do, and she decided to go ahead.
She set her camera bag on the floor outside the office. Not much she could screw up labeling and stocking shelves. Anxious to get started, she slit open a box with the knife, reached inside and drew out a package of Tshirts.
The shirts, she’d noticed, were displayed on a side wall right above the bins that held the various sizes. Easy enough. She also noticed how precise and neat Rhys kept the store. Everything had its place.
Everything she learned about the man challenged Morgan’s description. He’d told her his interest was in building motorcycles, one-of-a-kind custom-made originals. And from the photographs he’d shown her, his work was truly artistic, like metal sculpture. Art was a medium to which Whitney could relate.
Rhys was a complicated man. And as much as she tried, she just couldn’t reconcile the picture Morgan had painted with the man she saw. So far. People weren’t always what they seemed and sometimes those who seemed the most together w
ere monsters inside. Abusers with anger issues were the most dangerous. Syrup could drip from their tongue when contrite, but with the least provocation, they’d become a monster. Was that volatility what she’d sensed in Gannon?
“I said no!” Rhys’s voice boomed, startling Whitney.
“Either he comes through with the money or there’s no deal. It’s as simple as that.”
Whitney clutched the T-shirt close to her chest and inched nearer to the door.
“No. I don’t make second offers. Money is up-front. I’ll come through with the product on this end.”
Holding her breath, Whitney strained to hear more. But Rhys’s voice suddenly quieted, and she couldn’t make out the rest of the conversation.
I’ll come through with the product. Did that mean what she thought it did?
How could she have forgotten? She was here to prove Rhys was an unfit parent? To prove he was a drug dealer, or at the very least, that he had unsavory connections—and that she should have custody of SaraJane.
She’d forgotten because, until now, until this minute, it had been easy to forget. He’d seemed so different. Yes, he was aloof sometimes, even a little secretive, but then why shouldn’t he be? What reason would he have for baring his soul to a total stranger?
According to Gretta, he’d undergone a major life change. If that was true, she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to talk about his past. And according to Gretta, he’d been trying to put it all behind him.
Weren’t his actions proof of that? He’d welcomed her to his shop, offered her work, given her his help in researching the book. He’d even found her a place to stay.
And because of it, she’d almost forgotten he was a man capable of despicable acts.
He’d been so gentle and loving with SaraJane. He’d been that way with her, too, patiently explaining, gently teasing when she didn’t remember names and types of bikes. But the conversation she’d just overheard was confrontational, not at all like his earlier behavior, giving rise to further suspicion.
